(Note: In some chapters Ghost mask is mentioned, sorry for the mistake...it's Phantom Veil only.)
Chapter 162 – Flowing Water and Interrogation
His mind was hazy and heavy.
Through the fog of unconsciousness, the faint sound of rippling water drifted into Charles's ears. A pervasive dampness surrounded him, making his sleeping body feel increasingly uncomfortable.
Water… Am I by a river?
Why would I be by a river?
Fragments of thought moved sluggishly through his mind, yet something about it all felt wrong.
No… something's wrong…
Suddenly, Charles jolted awake.
Strands of black hair drifted before his eyes. Ahead of him stretched a deep, silent expanse of dark water that made his mind waver in confusion.
He turned his head to examine his surroundings. His movements were slow, as if some invisible resistance was holding him back.
But what shocked him even more was the environment he found himself in.
Above.
Below.
Left and right.
Water.
Everything was water.
Clear water with a faint bluish tint.
It was as if he had suddenly fallen into the middle of a vast lake, completely submerged beneath the surface.
Yet strangely—
he could still breathe.
Charles stared blankly for a moment, stunned by what he was experiencing. Then he quickly looked down at himself.
"If I remember correctly, just a moment ago I was…"
A faint golden glow shimmered over the surface of his body, illuminating the surrounding water.
Seeing it, Charles finally understood.
He was in spirit form.
A spirit didn't need to breathe.
But that realization wasn't what troubled him most.
Another issue quickly surfaced.
He could no longer see his status panel.
"What happened?"
Charles was bewildered.
He clearly remembered being inside the advancement space.
Then the system warned him about unknown energy interference.
After that—
he lost consciousness.
So how had he ended up in this strange place?
What had happened after he passed out?
Charles didn't know.
He looked around again.
Water.
Nothing but water.
He glanced upward, but there was no visible water surface either.
It was as though this entire place was a world made of water.
Some mysterious light illuminated the environment just enough to keep it from becoming pitch black, allowing him to see his surroundings.
But that hardly helped.
Because there was nothing else here.
No animals.
No plants.
No people.
Only himself—
and water filling the entire world.
He remained lost in confusion for an unknown amount of time.
Then suddenly, a ripple spread through the water before him.
"Something's there?"
Charles's eyes narrowed.
After remaining here for so long, he had become extremely sensitive to any change in the environment.
So he fixed his gaze on the disturbance.
Moments later—
an elderly man slowly emerged from the rippling water.
The old man wore a night robe.
He looked at least seventy or eighty years old.
His back was hunched, his face covered with wrinkles. The moment he appeared, he looked at Charles with dull, baggy eyes.
Charles had expected the first words from this stranger to be some grand introduction—or perhaps cryptic nonsense.
Instead, the old man spoke as if they were simply chatting at home.
"My child," he said slowly, "I told you long ago that serving the gods would be a life of hardship. But you never listened…"
"What are you talking about?" Charles frowned.
The old man ignored the question and continued rambling as if Charles hadn't spoken.
"I and your mother waited day and night for you to return to the estate and inherit the family lands. After all, you're our only son."
"But you were always so stubborn. You would rather wander the world than come back to see us."
"And what did you gain in the end?"
Before Charles could respond, the faint golden glow surrounding his body suddenly began to tremble violently.
At first he was shocked.
Then realization struck him.
His face changed immediately.
His Phantom Veil was collapsing.
"Your mother lies paralyzed in bed," the old man continued, his voice filled with reproach. "And I, your father, have spent years being deceived by servants."
"We hoped you would return to support the family. But what did we receive instead?"
"Only your indifference."
The golden light around Charles shook even more violently.
The old man delivered the final blow.
"So now you're dead, aren't you?"
"And after death… did you meet the gods you served?"
"Did you see them?"
"Or did you find only merciless gods… and cruel demons?"
Crack.
A strange sound rang in Charles's ears—like glass shattering, or wood snapping in two.
In stunned disbelief, he realized that the faint golden "skin" covering his body was actually breaking apart into fragments of light, drifting away into the surrounding water.
A fierce heat suddenly flared across his forehead.
Startled, Charles raised a hand to touch it, only to feel a rough depression—as though something that had once been there had been burned away.
"What…?"
He was shocked.
His Phantom Veil, and the Seven-Gods mark he had relied upon through it—
had vanished.
Why?
Who exactly was the man he had just seen?
Or rather… what was he?
But before Charles could question anything further, the hunched old man dissolved into ripples of water and disappeared, leaving him no chance to interrogate or even observe.
Only Charles remained, floating alone in the vast water-filled world, bewildered.
And his condition was now completely different from before.
Dense black mist roiled around him.
Another face seemed to overlay his own, and grotesque skulls occasionally emerged within the dark fog, silently screaming.
At a glance, he looked less like a man and more like a demon rising from hell.
This state lasted for four or five minutes.
Then the water rippled again.
Under Charles's wary gaze, another figure slowly appeared.
This time it was also an old man—older than the previous one.
He sat slumped in a chair, his hair sparse, his teeth loose, his lips thin. His face carried a permanently bitter, venomous expression.
"Ha! My dear grandson," the old man sneered, "seeing you makes me sick."
Once again, the words were directed at Charles.
Once again, Charles had no idea what was going on.
And once again, he didn't need to respond.
"Perhaps when I mounted your grandmother, I should have thought twice," the old man continued viciously, "about why I'd produce such a stupid, worthless grandson!"
"You think I didn't know about your affair with your brother's wife? And little Wada too! Damn it—every time I think about it, the more I realize you're no better than an animal!"
"But that's not even the worst part!"
The old man trembled as he spoke, glaring at Charles with poisonous hatred.
Black blood began to seep from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth.
"Did you spend all your strength screwing the women of this family?!"
"Why didn't you notice Rhaegar's abnormal behavior earlier?"
"Why?"
"Why?!"
"You were poisoned to death at a banquet!"
"And it happened on Frey territory!"
"How could you be so stupid?!"
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Answer me, grandson!"
Every word he spoke caused the black mist around Charles to tremble violently.
As the accusations grew more relentless, the shaking became more and more intense.
Finally—
under the pressure of the relentless interrogation—
the black mist shuddered once and collapsed into nothingness.
During the process, Charles had tried to attack the old man to stop it.
But every strike he made only caused ripples across the man's body.
The figure was like an illusion—
or a being made entirely of water.
In the end, Charles could only watch helplessly as the Wraith Substitute protecting him dissipated.
Yes.
A Wraith Substitute.
Even without the Eye of Reality, Charles knew very clearly the structure of his own spirit.
The outermost layer had been the Phantom Veil.
Beneath that was the Wraith Substitute.
And at the very core—
his true spirit.
"What's next…?"
Charles took a deep breath.
After two encounters, he had begun to understand the pattern.
The first figure had been related to the Phantom Veil's origin.
The second had been tied to the Wraith Substitute.
So what about the final layer?
Would it be the original body's relatives?
Or… his own?
As Charles frowned deeply, the water rippled for the third time.
A plump middle-aged man appeared.
He wore an expensive purple tailcoat.
Round face, narrow eyes, a naturally amiable expression—as if he were smiling all the time.
Yet the words that came out of his mouth were anything but friendly.
"So lying and bullying your younger brother—that's how you tried to get my attention?"
The moment he appeared, he began scolding loudly.
"Did you ever think how much trouble that would bring to me—to our family?"
"Did you ever think how much harm that would cause others?"
"Did you ever think what kind of impact it would have on your brother?!"
"Did you?!"
The fat man's face twisted with anger.
"You blame me for kicking you out, but whose fault is that?"
"You brought it all upon yourself!"
"You want me to be proud of you?" he sneered.
"Well let me tell you something—I regret your birth. I despise everything you've done. Yes, that's the truth. Didn't you always want to hear the truth?"
"Well now you've heard it."
"How does it feel?"
The man kept questioning him with cold mockery.
But this time, Charles's spirit did not collapse again.
Seeing this, Charles quietly let out a breath of relief.
This was his final spiritual layer.
If it shattered too, it might mean his death.
Thank goodness…
Just as that thought crossed his mind, the fat man suddenly looked enlightened.
"Oh right," he said slowly.
"I just remembered—you're not even my son."
"You're a fake."
"That's right. A fake."
"So where is my real son?"
"What did you do to him?"
Charles watched the furious questioning with cold eyes, his emotions barely stirred.
Perhaps realizing that his accusations had no effect, the man suddenly smiled strangely.
Then, before Charles's darkening expression—
the water rippled again.
And the figure transformed.
Into someone else.
A young man with black hair and black eyes, tall and handsome.
Was it Charles Cranston?
Or the other Charles Cranston?
Charles himself wasn't sure.
Before the body-snatching, he had even forgotten what he originally looked like.
The only face he remembered clearly was this one.
But it didn't matter.
Because what the young man said next left Charles with no room to think about anything else.
"You toy with corpses."
"You destroy souls."
"You drain people dry."
"And you even gouge out their eyes."
The young man's face twisted with disgust.
"Why do you do this?"
"You had other choices."
"So why?"
"To grow stronger?"
"To kill?"
"Or because it gives you pleasure?"
"I—" Charles tried to reply.
But the young man cut him off immediately.
"Stop hiding behind excuses about having no choice!"
"Did you really have no choice?"
"At first maybe that was true."
"But what about later?"
"You joined the Church. You had a brighter future ahead of you."
"So why continue walking the path of necromancy?"
"Because you couldn't abandon your disguise spell? Because you were afraid of exposure? How do you know it couldn't be removed if you never even tried?"
"Because you possessed another body? Who would know?"
"No choice? What a joke!"
"So which is it?"
"Can't… or won't?"
Charles fell silent under the barrage of questions.
"How pitiful," the young man sighed.
"You keep inventing excuses."
"But in truth…"
"You're just cold-blooded."
"The Church's path might be slow, and it requires dedication—but if you followed it steadily, it would still be better than the path you chose."
"You hate being controlled by the Church?"
"You fear their special attention might hide some conspiracy?"
"How ridiculous."
"You're both hypocritical and paranoid."
"You comfort yourself by claiming criminals and ordinary people are different."
"But that justification doesn't really hold up, does it?"
"Think carefully."
"You're nothing but a cold, hollow maggot."
"You ignore life itself."
"You had a righteous road available."
"But you chose the evil shortcut of necromancy."
"You didn't lack choices."
"You simply refused them."
"Deep down, you were never the kind of person willing to walk the long road."
"So—"
He sneered.
"Should I call you Mr. Victim of Fate…"
"…or Mr. Hypocrite, preaching morality while killing without hesitation?"
"Tell me."
"You want to climb higher—but if you can't even understand yourself, how can you understand the path beneath your feet?"
After finishing, the young man fell silent, watching Charles with a cold smile.
Charles said nothing.
The words were ordinary.
Yet he could not ignore them.
Did he really have no choice?
Was he unwilling to live honestly?
Was he truly hypocritical?
Was he… just pretending?
Thinking back over the last few months of his life, Charles's expression shifted repeatedly.
Finally, after a long pause—
he spoke.
"You're right."
"I could say that I'm desperate to grow stronger because I want to return home quickly."
"I could say I'm afraid my parents will be left alone without support."
"That I'm afraid they'll fall sick with no one to care for them."
"I could list every fear imaginable…"
"But those aren't excuses."
He took a deep breath.
"In truth, I'm just cold-blooded."
"I'm indifferent."
"I simply don't care."
"I'm hypocritical—I could blame that on my upbringing, on moral education, or say it's my humanity struggling inside."
"But honestly…"
"To hell with humanity."
"Why should I care?"
"What does someone else's death have to do with me?"
"Playing with corpses? Are corpses really different from the meat people eat every day?"
"Choosing criminals instead of ordinary people?"
"Yes—that's hypocrisy."
"But I like that hypocrisy."
"I decide who deserves to die and who doesn't."
"I follow my own moral compass, not the sermons of others!"
"So what if I chose the path of necromancy?"
"I chose it because I wanted to!"
"If there's a fast road to power, who the hell would crawl forward like a turtle?!"
"You think I came to this world for sightseeing?!"
"We're not children anymore."
"I don't need anyone telling me how to live."
"So yes—I'm hypocritical. I'm cruel. Cold-blooded. Ruthless."
His anger suddenly faded.
And he laughed.
"So what?"
"I just want to be myself."
"My own morality."
"My own sense of good and evil."
"My own path."
"I don't need anyone—especially you—telling me how to live!"
…
The young man listened quietly.
Finally, he nodded thoughtfully.
"So… you finally recognize yourself now?"
Charles snorted.
"I recognize your damn grandfather."
The young man froze in surprise.
But before he could speak again—
the surrounding water suddenly roared.
Everything blurred rapidly.
Then, under Charles's stunned gaze—
soft golden light gathered within the water and formed a set of clothing around his spirit.
He looked down.
He was now wearing something entirely different.
A white tailcoat.
A black seven-pointed star badge pinned to his chest.
White trousers.
White leather shoes.
Once the outfit finished forming—
rolling black smoke appeared before him.
Under the influence of an unknown power, the smoke struggled and twisted before finally condensing into a pitch-black ring that slid onto the ring finger of his left hand.
At the same time—
a strange presence inside his spirit was forced out by the same mysterious power.
It trembled briefly before dissolving into smoke.
It was the Tongue of Oath, which had once fused with his soul.
Finally—
a gold-edged card appeared in the breast pocket of his white tailcoat where a handkerchief would normally go.
Everything seemed to end there.
The water world faded.
The cold sensation of the iron throne returned beneath him.
The dark wasteland reappeared before his eyes.
Charles sat there in a daze.
Yet the system notifications continued to appear automatically.
[Your disguise spell has been devoured. Your advancement path has been altered]
[Certain hidden dangers within your body have been eliminated]
[You have gained the talent — Lord of the Long Night]
[You have gained the talent — Walking Fate]